While the moonlight continued its slow retreat from inside his chambers, seated on his bed, Michael stared down at the wooden box in his hands that now housed the dead bird. The box's previous non-important contents were scattered on the floor by his feet, and in his peripheral shined Ellette's red cloak, which was laid out next to him.

The night was nearly over, which meant it was now or never. If he did not complete this task of ridding himself of everything he carried an emotional attachment to before the night ended, he feared dawn would only bring forth another day he would look back upon with regret.

He stood up, held the box in one hand and picked up the cloak with the other, then walked over to the already lit fireplace across the room. He crouched down in front of it, and stared into the dancing flames while the heat caressed his face. Before he completely fell prey to the fire's alluring show, he looked down at the wooden box and cloak.

He knew what needed to be done, yet his mind and body were at odds.

A quick flick of the wrist was all it would take for the box to be tossed into the fire, but instead of seeing it as the casket it was, all he could see was the tiny bird staring up at him with its beady black eyes.

His fingers were ready to loosen their grip on the cloak and let the flames consume it, but all he could think about was how the cloak marked the beginning of his relationship with Ellette.

Both she and the bird were supposed to be his second chance after failing to save Gabriel, but the bird was now dead, and Ellette was already close to meeting a similar fate.

And it was all because of him.

The smell of burning paper pulled him from his thoughts and his gaze towards the fireplace. When he saw the hem of the cloak had caught fire, he immediately snatched it out of the flame's clutches, tossed it onto the ground and stomped out the flames.

Once extinguished, he dropped to his knees, set the box down beside him and stared at the burned fabric covering half of the cloak. He tried to brush off the burnt parts, but doing so only made those bits crumble.

He pulled his hands away, accepting he could not salvage what had already been damaged, and the pile of ashy remains scattered around him and the cloak saddened him in a way he had not expected.

He knew if he wanted to return to how things were before he discovered Ellette in the Woodlands—before he remembered the past, before he foolishly believed he could save anyone—he had to get rid of anything and everything that reminded him of it. Of her. But seeing the one thing that initially sparked his feelings for her go up in flames had made him panic.

But was watching it burn not exactly what he had intended to do?

He stared between the box, the cloak and the fire.

One could not hurt if they could not feel, and in order to not feel, he had to rid himself of everything that made him do so. That was what he had told himself over and over for the entire half hour since his father had left, yet look how he had crumbled as easily as the fabric of the burnt cloak.

But if he could not even keep the bird hidden, how much longer could he keep Ellette hidden in the Woodlands? What if his father had discovered the cloak while waiting for Michael? There was no way to explain it, which was why he had kept it locked away in the first place. But locked away or not, so long as he kept it around, the possibility of it being discovered would always exist.

He let out a deep sigh, then gathered the box and cloak and stood up.

He turned towards the fireplace and threw the wooden box into the fire. The flames exploded as it swallowed the box, almost as if it were thanking him for the offering. Once it had its fill and the flames were no longer raging but settling into a calmed state, he tossed the cloak in.

He watched only for a second before turning around and walking away. The cackling of the fire filled his chambers as the cloak burned, and his only thought was what had once marked his and Ellette's beginning now marked their end.

* * *

His fingers tangled in her hair, and as he deepened their kiss, he felt her arms slide around his neck and pull him in closer. As they were sprawled out on her bed, he was certain his body being on top of hers was probably not the most comfortable position for her, but she obviously did not mind. She only matched his every kiss with a kiss, his every touch with a touch.

Michael was going to forget Ellette by any means necessary, and the only way he knew how to do that was to replace everything about her.

The feel of her touch, and soft curves of her body. The marvelous sight of the moonlight bouncing off her dark skin. The taste of her kiss. The sound of his name falling from her lips.

"Michael..."

He stilled as a shiver ran down his spine. His name had not been spoken, but he heard it as clear as day. Her sing-song whisper of a voice so distinct and ingrained so deep inside of his mind that it refused to be so easily forgotten.

He pulled away and stared down at Danica. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses. Her eyes fluttered open, and when she stared up at him with green orbs darkened by passion, he slid the hand holding the back of her head down to her face and cupped her cheek.

For days, he had spent nearly every moment with her. Held her hand as they walked the castle grounds. Dined with her every morning, afternoon and evening. Listened to stories of her life while he walked her to and from her chambers. He had done everything he possibly could to be so entirely consumed by Danica, but one haunting whisper of his name—from a voice he had once so desperately wanted to hear speak it—was threatening to undo all of his efforts.

He leaned in and claimed her mouth again. He pulled his hand from her cheek and placed it on her leg. Slowly, he slid the hem of her nightgown up her thigh and dragged his mouth across her lips, along her jaw and down to her neck.

"Michael..." she moaned.

That was exactly what he wanted. Needed. To drown out her voice with another.

He continued to kiss and suck on Danica's neck. Marking her. Claiming her. Her fingers gripped onto his hair as she arched her back, her chest pressed against his. Her breathy moans filled his ears, fueling him to keep going.

"I love you."

Again Michael stilled, but that time, it was not her haunting voice but Danica's that made him do so. He opened his eyes to the sight of the wet, reddened skin on her neck where he had been marking her.

He released the fistful of her nightgown and rolled off of her and onto his back next to her on the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, the cackling of the fireplace and his and Danica's heavy breathing the only sounds in the room.

"I... I am sorry. I did not mean to blurt that out."

Michael did not respond. He only continued to stare up at the shadows casted along the ceiling as his breathing steadied into its normal rhythm.

She loved him? Was a few rough kisses and groping all it took to make her fall in love?

Admittedly, this was what he wanted. Expected. She liked him more than he liked her, and he was knowingly using that to his advantage. But her sudden confession made him realize in that moment that she would always—knowingly or unknowingly—give him everything he wanted, but could he ever do the same?

He was taking what he wanted from her, but what could he possibly give her in return? What was he willing to give her in return? What was he capable of giving her in return? Could he tell her he loved her and ever mean it?

He turned his head to the side to look at Danica. Her hands were clutched at her chest and she was biting at her bottom lip.

He could tell her he loved her back, but there would be no coming back from that. She would accept it despite knowing it was a lie, and, from that day onward, he would have to utter it to silence her doubts and assure her it was true.

But she deserved better. She deserved someone who could love her in the way she deserved to be loved, but that would never be him. There would only ever be one person he could say those three words to and mean it, despite how hard he was trying to stop loving her at all.

He returned his gaze to the ceiling. "You do not have to apologize. If anything, I should apologize for taking things too far. I am sorry."

He sat up and moved so that he sat on the edge of the bed with his back turned to her. "I should go. 'Tis getting late, and you should rest."

He stood up and made a break for the door.

"Okay. Will you dine with me tomorrow morning?"

He stopped and turned to look at her, forcing a smile onto his face when their eyes met. "Of course. Good night."

Only when he was out of her chambers and after he shut the door behind him did his smile fall. It seemed under the protection of the darkness of the corridors, in the middle of the night while on his way back to his chambers after leaving Danica's, was the only time of day when and where he did not have to pretend. His own room no longer offered that protection because in there is where he found himself having to pretend most of all.

That was his life now, and tomorrow, he would have to do it all again.